


Never Simple

by Renaisty



Series: beside the river of truth [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Captain America: Civil War (Movie), Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Overthinking, Peter Parker Needs a Hug, Sokovia Accords, The Raft Prison (Marvel), What-If
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-28
Updated: 2017-10-28
Packaged: 2019-01-23 15:52:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,300
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12510864
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Renaisty/pseuds/Renaisty
Summary: "I'm sure it's not forever," he lied to himself, and to them."If I had a lawyer, yeah maybe I'd believe you."Had Peter got a lawyer, or a phone call, he'd believe himself too.





	Never Simple

**Author's Note:**

> So. I really empathise with Peter's mentality, as a hero, and it's pretty tragic to me that he never learned what really happened. Also, I needed to work through my intense feelings on the Accords, which, since I recently got back in the MCU fandom, have been eating me up inside. This is what came of it. I've stayed very close to canon, only headcanoning a couple of things and filling stuff in along the way.
> 
> Title from a quote by Oscar Wilde. 'The truth is rarely pure and never simple.'
> 
> This was very much outside my comfort zone, in part, so I hope I did it justice, or at least came close to it.
> 
> Just to provide some context, the woman Peter saves at the start is the Chancellor, and it's in the director's cut of 'a film by Peter Parker'.

The woman, while visibly shaken, did not seem to let go of the air of control and dignity. With a simple, but honest 'danke' she turned and continued going to wherever she had been going before things took a dangerous turn.

Well. A job done is a job done. He shot out a web, aiming to get to the roof of the closest building. It was about time to call it a night, he supposed. End the most amazing adventure of his life on that good note.

He never made it to the roof. Instead, something sliced through the webbing and Peter fell through the air, landing on another roof, significantly lower than the first.

Within a few moments, he was surrounded by six men dressed all in black tactical gear, pointing guns at his chest and back. His first thought was 'evil henchmen', and he got ready for a fight.

"You are under arrest," said the one he was directly looking at.

Wait what?

"What? For what?"

The man seemed to draw back at the sound of his voice, but his tone was steady when he spoke again.

"Your presence and actions are in violation of the Sokovia Accords. Hands in the air. You have the right to remain silent."

"I didn't do anything wrong," Peter tried.

He didn't know what to do. These people were talking as if they were the authority. More than that, the guy sounded American, so they probably were not the German police or something. But then, how could they be the authority in Berlin?

"Have you or have you not signed the Sokovia Accords?"

Peter had never in his life signed anything, so there really was not much to wonder at.

"No?"

"You'll have to come with us," the guy said. He hadn't lowered the weapon even once, and Peter was starting to get scared. The other guys were motionless, weapons still trained on him like he was a bomb ready to blow.

Okay, not his best analogy, but considering the circumstances, he thought he got a pass.

He didn't want to involve Mr Stark. But maybe if he told them about Mr Stark, they'd… What?

For the first time, Peter realised it. No matter the Accords, whatever those were supposed to do, he was in Germany illegally even by normal standards. They never did get around to issuing him a passport, it being too time-consuming, and they'd have needed May's permission anyway.

"Look, I-"

Something hit him in the back, small and light. In the next moment, his whole body was on fire.

It hurt so much. More than the spider bite, more than any scrapes and broken bones over the years. Hell, he'd fought the Avengers and not felt pain like that. He didn't know if he screamed, or for how long it lasted, but soon the world turned blessedly dark.

…

Silence. That's all there was.

He wasn't in his bed, in May's and his apartment and it took him a minute to fully remember why.

Tony Stark. The airport. The Avengers.

The feeling of fear came back full force once he remembered the men. He hesitated to open his eyes, instead focusing on his surroundings and what he felt.

He was in a chair, limbs a little stiff, brain a little mushed, but otherwise okay. The room around him was still dead silent.

Experimentally, he opened his eyes. The low light didn't hurt, but he wasn't able to get a good look in before a door behind him opened.

The fear transformed into panic when he realised he wasn't in the suit. Shit. This wasn't supposed to happen.

"So; kid," said a voice, presumably belonging to the man who had opened the door.

Peter didn't think. There was a desk in front of him, and he jumped out of the chair and on the other side of it as quickly as possible, back pressed against the flat, probably grey surface.

"Hey, don't worry. We're the good guys."

'Are they?' whispered a voice in Peter's head. Momentarily, he looked down to see what his suit had been replaced with. He was relieved to find it was a simple pair of sweats and a t-shirt, both light grey.

A lot of grey in that place.

"Now, you do have the right to remain silent but we'd prefer it if you didn't."

Rights. Of course. If they were the good guys, then he still had his rights. He could breathe easier then, a weight lifting off his shoulders. He gathered his courage, pleased that his voice didn't shake much once he spoke. He still didn't stand to face the man though.

"So, have I been arrested?"

"Yes, for violating the Sokovia Accords, but you already knew that." He didn't try to come closer, instead staying by the door, and for that Peter was grateful. "Now, I'm sure you don't want trouble, and neither do we." The man took a breath to continue, but Peter butted in before he could.

"I want a phone call."

There was a pause. "I'm truly sorry," he said, though in Peter's opinion he didn't sound sorry, "but that can't happen yet. You've found yourself in a very complicated situation, and believe me, we are just as stumped as you."

Now that, Peter found very hard to believe. The man radiated authority, even just going by his voice. If he wanted to make something happen, he probably could.

"Then…" he paused, changing his tone from a request to a statement. It was probably better to appear sure of himself. Or as sure as he could appear. "I want a lawyer."

"I'll have to apologise again. Sadly, the system is very new and some parts of the procedure have had to be made... simpler." No lawyer then. The panic, which had retreated to the back of his mind, came back full force. Peter could feel his heart start to pound erratically, his breath coming in short gasps that he kept as quiet as he could.

This was starting to turn nightmarish really fast. He wished he was back home, safe in his city and in his bed, with May in the next room and Ned on the screen in front of him. That he'd never come home to find Tony Stark in his living room.

"Luckily, despite the… less than simple situation, getting out of it is very simple. All you have to do is sign the Accords, and everything you did in Berlin will be legal."

Peter was coming to realise that nothing in life was quite that simple. And not just because he was pretty sure he could not sign anything without May's approval.

"I'm going to leave the Accords here, and should you agree, we'll only need your name and your signature. Within a couple of minutes, you'll be out of here like nothing happened and both of us can go home."

"Alright," he got out.

"I'll leave you to it. Don't take too long."

The door closed, and Peter sagged against the desk.

They didn't know his name. When he realised he didn't have the suit, he'd thought this was it. His secret identity was shot. But now… Now to get out, he'd need to give them his name anyway.

He wasn't scared. He was not scared. When the man came back, he'd look him in the eye.

Peter stood up, making his way around the desk. On it, there was a stack of papers, more than an inch thick. 'The Sokovia Accords', it read in all capitals on the top of the first page.

The next words were more concerning. 'Framework for the registration and deployment of enhanced individuals'.

May and Ben had impressed on him from a young age the importance of being careful where you sign. 'You _have_ to read the fine print', May would say, undoubtedly remembering some of her earlier jobs, if the look of distaste on her face was anything to go by. How exactly was he supposed to not take too long?

In the end, he didn't need to.

He was no stranger to studying long hours. This was just… something else he needed to study, as quickly as possible. So what if he checked the last page to see the conclusion by habit?

He couldn't resist a grimace.

 _The below mentioned participants, peoples and individuals shall no longer operate freely or unregulated._ Okay… Had this been made for superheroes or enhanced people in general? Because the first made a little sense, even if he couldn't imagine asking permission to save people, but the second… he shuddered. He wasn't a weapon to used, and neither was anyone else with powers.

 _Acting only when and if the panel deems it appropriate and/or necessary._ Panel? Which panel?

Under the short paragraph was a simple line, ostensibly for a signature. His signature.

Peter turned back to the front, starting from the beginning. He tried to get the gist of each 'chapter' within a couple of minutes, then move on to the next one. 'Tried' being the operative word.

He couldn't understand it. Not just the legal jargon, of which there was plenty, but also the general feel of it. They seemed to alternate between treating enhanced people as weapons and as vigilantes, as if they couldn't be anything else.

Well. There was a retirement option. Just hang up your cowl, live a quiet life and not concern yourself with… well. Anything special. And the not getting out of the country without permission did seem a bit excessive.

The alternative wasn't something to sneer at either. The tracking, the biometrics, the check-ups… More than that, you'd basically become some kind of soldier, go on the missions some members of the UN wanted. The weird thing was, there was a lot of focus on the casualties and who got the blame, but way less focus on preventing casualties in the first place. People would still die; reattributing the blame wouldn't bring them back.

At times, it did seem like the Accords had been originally designed only with the Avengers in mind. For his part, he was content to stay in New York and help people. He wasn't eager to get involved with world-ending conflicts, for sure.

There couldn't have passed more than two hours, at most. His head had started to hurt. Maybe it was the stress, the fear, or the legalese, but it felt like someone had taken a hammer to his skull.

He didn't want to sign. But he couldn't not sign.

Come to think of it, he'd never asked the man what would happen if he didn't sign. He could almost feel his headache getting worse just by thinking about it.

It wasn't hard for his brain to come up with worse-case scenarios. He'd never leave this place. He'd never see May or Ned again.

What would May think if he never came home? So soon after Ben… And what about Ned? He'd promised to work together on Ned's new Lego ship on Monday. He couldn't just…

Or he was being too melodramatic and nothing would happen, he'd just go back home and hang up his suit, staying away from heroics.

But now he could help people. He could do things no one else could. Now he could make sure what happened to Ben didn't happen to as many people as he could.

He couldn't just stand aside. Never again.

…Between a rock and a hard place.

The door opened again.

"I trust you've made your decision?"

Peter was tired. He hadn't slept, and he'd just tried to read hundreds of pages worth of legal documents in very little time. Somehow, everything seemed a little less scary, but also a lot scarier.

On the one hand, he finally mostly knew what was going on. On the other hand, this was huge, and he couldn't discount that. Bigger than just him, bigger than the Avengers even (except maybe Hulk and Thor). This was the governments of the world deciding they needed to have control over something.

…If Peter even understood that right.

"I've decided," he said, turning around. The man was tall, with grey and white hair and a thick moustache. Peter kind of thought he'd seen him before somewhere. "But, I was wondering. What happens if I don't sign?"

His expression momentarily turned dark, but it went back to serious quickly.

"I would advise against that. But, of course, we skipped the introductions." He extended his right hand. Peter hesitantly took it. "Thaddeus Ross, Secretary of State."

Force of habit almost made Peter blurt out his name right then and there. He stifled it in the last second, almost spluttering instead. "Oh," he said, to Ross's slight amusement. That's why he'd seemed familiar.

"Yes. Now, your answer?"

"I... Can I think about it some more? It's a pretty big decision."

Ross sighed. "I really wish you hadn't said that."

The words set off warning bells in Peter's head. He thought about running, but to where? He had no idea where he was.

He should just sign and be done with it. But he really needed more time. Signing his autonomy away? He couldn't; not so easily.

"I suppose I'll have to give you the alternative then," Ross said, gesturing for Peter to exit the room. "Until you decide." With really no other choice, he did, wondering if he'd just sentenced himself to something he'd regret.

He probably had.

…

"It gets a bit cold," Ross explained, at Peter's confused expression. The too-long sleeves of the hoodie he'd been given were great for hiding his fingers' nervous twitching, but not much more.

They passed only one window, if one could call a tiny hole in the wall at the end of a tunnel a window. Only darkness could be seen outside, and Peter really thought it was just night-time until Ross told him they were underwater.

So, even if he somehow escaped their notice and tried to leave, he wouldn't get very far. Great.

The place was huge. Huge, well-fortified, and definitely well-planned. While they were walking through the underwater hallways, Peter scoffed internally. If they built this whole thing specifically for the Accords business, then it really wasn't a 'new system' at all.

The halls were deserted, apart from a couple of guards every corridor who didn't even look at them. Even when they passed other personnel, nobody was looking at them. They either were very absorbed in their work, or had been given some kind of instructions. Neither thought was appealing or encouraging.

Ross gave him the Accords and ushered him towards a thick door. "Once you're ready to sign, just say the word."

"And if I'm not?" he asked, just to be sure.

"Then, I'm afraid there's nothing I can do."

The door opened without much fanfare. And that was the moment Peter realised exactly what this place was; nothing more than a prison.

He didn't panic. Not yet. But his insides felt like ice and he couldn't breathe properly.

The cell, because that's what it was, was not tiny, but small if that's where you're supposed to live. It was equipped with a cot, a stool, attached to the wall and the floor respectively, and not much else. The opposite wall was glass, with a series of thick horizontal bars on the outside, for added security he supposed. Beyond the glass was only more of the grey walls on the whole facility, at least as far as he could see.

There was barely a sound, but the door closed behind him.

Suddenly, the full weight of the situation crashed on him; metaphorically, but Peter still almost ended up on the floor in sheer panic.

"Wait," he gasped, turning to the closed door. "Wait, come back!" He pounded on the silver metal, feeling its resistance under his fists. He was strong, he knew, very strong. But the door didn't budge, didn't even creak; not when he threw his whole body at it, not when he punched it.

Before long, he collapsed against the door. He could be making things worse for himself.

"Hey, what the fuck?!" called a voice, indignant, from beyond the glass. "Did you bring a _kid_ here?"

"Keep your cool," cut in another person, calmer, but with a sharp edge not directed at the other. "If we lose it, we won't get through this."

The voice was not unfamiliar. In fact, he'd heard it just hours (days?) ago. At an airport. With the Avengers.

No. No this was not happening.

Peter scrambled to get to the glass.

Falcon. That was Falcon, in a cell identical to Peter's. There was a bloody bruise taking up the upper left side of his face, under his eye, and he was missing his gear, but he still had an air of quiet control.

Next to his cell, on the right, was another one, with a guy that Peter didn't know, and then Hawkeye, who looked murderous. On Falcon's other side, there was an empty cell, as far as Peter could tell, and then his own.

The glass walls were not like windows, he noticed, looking at them from the outside. The panel next to them, the couple of steps leading to the bars, suggested that they were doors. And the bars themselves were in three pieces, like one of them could open if whoever was in charge wished.

Why were they here, in the middle of nowhere, ocean? How? And if _they_ were still here, then what hope was there for Peter?

"Hey, kid," started Falcon, "it's okay. Well, no, it really isn't," he amended, "but we'll figure something out."

Strangely, Peter felt calmer. Like things really would work out. There was something about Falcon; it was like he knew the precise tone of voice Peter needed to hear.

And no one seemed to recognise him, which made him very grateful. He didn't know if they'd be happy to see the guy who they'd fought against, and he wasn't about to volunteer the information to find out.

"Why are you guys here?"

He hadn't meant to say the words out loud, and he wished he could take them back. Of course, they didn't sign the Accords, like him, why else would they be here?

"Because it seems I have shitty taste in friends, that's why," Hawkeye said darkly.

"Oh, come on, I heard you with Black Widow," the unfamiliar man turned to him.

"Except Natasha, then, I have shitty taste in friends."

" _I_ 'm here because I helped Captain America," the man in the middle said with a crooked, semi-sincere smile. "Kind of makes a guy proud, you know?"

Peter didn't. Not that he wouldn't have been proud to help Steve Rogers, but he had never had the chance to do so.

He turned to Falcon, more out of keeping up whatever weird cover they'd accidentally made for him. He knew why they were here.

Or did he? Was this, the Accords, what the fight at the airport had been about? He knew that Mr Stark had signed something, and the Captain hadn't, and it was 'tearing the Avengers apart'. That… did not sound like Captain America had gone crazy. That sounded more like a simple disagreement.

"Me?" Falcon said, "I just did what I could." He was pressing his hand in the middle of his chest carefully, lightly. Like it hurt.

"I don't understand. You're Avengers. You saved the world. You shouldn't be-"

"Treated like animals?" Hawkeye scoffed, with a glance at the seemingly empty cell. "Well, some people have different ideas of what 'basic human rights' and 'decency' are."

"I'm mostly happy you just referred to me as an Avenger."

"Well…"

"Yeah, I know." The man started extending a hand as if to do a handshake, but retracted it immediately. "Scott Lang; not really an Avenger."

"I'd… say pleased to meet you, but I'd rather not be here at all," Peter tried to joke. He thought it fell flat, but the corners of Scott's mouth raised in mirth.

"What about you?" Falcon asked. "Why are you here?"

"I guess I broke the Accords."

He raised an eyebrow. "You guess?"

"I didn't know about them. But… if you guys sign, can't you get out?"

He looked back at the floor where the Accords lay, abandoned where they'd fallen when Peter had been more concerned with getting out. Luckily, they hadn't made much of a mess, but seeing them, his way out, didn't make him feel any better about the whole thing.

"Oh wow, they gave you that option, huh? That's way more than the two words they said to me."

Hawkeye looked straight at him, with an expression that for the first time, was more serious than angry or bitter. "Just sign, kid. Take the out; go. You're too young to rot in a cell."

Serious, and hopeless.

"I'm sure it's not forever," he lied to himself, and them, and it was so obvious that Hawkeye laughed bitterly.

"If I had a lawyer, yeah maybe I'd believe you."

Had Peter got a lawyer, or a phone call, he'd believe himself too.

His heart was still beating quicker than it should have, and his hands were not as steady as usual, but he picked up the fallen papers. He might as well get to it, since it was the reason he was here.

The Accords didn't seem any different this time around. His tired brain couldn't quite manage to get any new information in though, and after a while he felt his brain check out entirely. Having experience with late-night study sessions, he knew there was no way he was getting anything done until he'd had some sleep.

With that thought, he stopped trying to keep his eyes open.

…

Peter awoke to screaming. Shrill, pained screams were echoing off the walls around him, loud and insistent.

He had to help.

His hands were already on the glass door when he realised he couldn't. And he also realised that the cell next to his was not empty. Maybe it had never been empty in the first place.

Scarlet Witch was screaming, shaking in the corner of the cell, leaning on the glass. The straightjacket she was in prevented her from moving too much, but Peter could see the collar around her neck sparking with electricity.

"Stop!" he shouted, hands pressed to the glass as if he could do anything. "Stop it!" His throat hurt from the force of the yell, and his fists from punching the glass, ineffective as it all was.

Her expression was crumpled, eyes screwed shut as she convulsed and screamed. Desperately, he looked at the others, but they were not saying anything, or doing anything. They were just staring, tense as if they'd snap at the slightest push. Hawkeye looked ready to kill and Scott was sitting on the cot with his hands over his ears. Falcon was losing the calm he had, his fist opening and closing slowly as his expression turned to anger.

He couldn't look at them for long. The screams were getting under his skin, drilling their way into his skull.

He'd fought Scarlet Witch hours before. She'd been free, and angry and powerful.

Now her agony made his stomach clench and his hands shake.

He was supposed to be a hero. Like the Avengers. Like the vigilantes of New York. That's why he'd made that suit and gone out there and stood in front of cars that would have crashed and killed people. Because he could help.

He'd helped. He'd helped make this happen. Helped put these people in this place, with no defence and no way out.

Suddenly sick to his stomach, he forcibly tore himself away from the glass. He tried to get away, from the screams and the pain and the anger, but he could only go so far in the small space.

It wasn't fair. None of this was fair.

It felt like an eternity before the screaming stopped, but he was sure it was only seconds.

He didn't move. Curled up in the far corner of the cell, he wrapped the too-big hoodie tighter around himself and tried not to cry.

…

When he woke, it was to lingering images of lightning trying not to burn everything down.

Opening his eyes was difficult.

Whatever redness or swelling there had been after he'd cried the night before was completely gone. Perks of having an accelerated healing factor. But he still couldn't find it in himself to face the day.

Or night. Whatever it was. The lights could be dimmed at their request, but aside from that, Peter still couldn't tell if it was day or night. And the sleep, while helping with everything else, didn't help with his sense of time.

He was so hungry. And there was definitely something edible around, if he judged by the smell.

In the end, the hunger won out. Peter opened his eyes, slowly lifting his head from his knees. Not the best position to sleep in, but exhaustion, both physical and mental, hadn't exactly left him enough presence of mind for moving to even occur to him.

"Hey," he heard Falcon's quiet voice. He returned the greeting just as softly once he saw Scarlet Witch was sleeping, on the floor but resting her head on the cot. He was dying to ask after her, but also afraid of what he would hear.

"This was a mistake. They thought she was doing something. Wanda is-"

"'Enhanced'? Yeah," he said, trying to keep the bitterness out of his tone. Falcon just grimaced in distaste, and boy did Peter know the feeling.

The food was surprisingly not horrible, if maybe less than he needed, but he did need more than the average fourteen-year-old, so there was that.

Peter briefly, very briefly, debated with himself whether to tell them. It was a very quick 'no'.

He couldn't help but notice that the others were being treated much more humanely. No matter what Wanda had done, if she'd even done anything, she didn't deserve this.

For all their skills, from what he understood, the others were not enhanced. (Why they were subject to the Accords… that was another question entirely.) Wanda was not just enhanced, but also extremely powerful. Was that how they planned to be treating all enhanced people that ended up in that place? Just the most powerful? The most hated? The most feared?

He shuddered. No, he would never ask for anything.

The thought scared him so much that he physically recoiled. It was like he'd given up, planning to stay there forever, in that cold and too-bright place, along with the people he'd helped get locked up.

He should just sign.

But as the hours were going by, he'd wondered. Would Mr Stark look for him? If Mr Stark did something… Maybe he could get out, in the end.

Or he'd already done something, and that was why they hadn't found out his name. Hard to believe that they just couldn't, with all the resources they probably had.

He'd probably search, if only because May was a scary person if you messed with Peter. After Ben, she'd become even more fiercely protective.

Right then, Peter was really wishing that she'd been at her most protective and hadn't let him go. Oh, he'd have hated it, and shouted about it and probably cried about it too, but at least he'd be home. And Mr Stark wouldn't have to come bail him out.

If he came. Which, Peter wanted to believe he would. If someone disappears, you go looking for them, right?

But would Iron Man even be allowed to? If Mr Stark had signed the same thing Peter had in his hands right then, he'd be unable to do anything without orders. That was a scary thought.

Would Mr Stark get in trouble, he wondered suddenly. They had his suit. If they looked at it closely, they might link it to Stark Industries. Had it been legal of him, to bring Peter into the fight like that? Reading through the Accords, he'd probably say no.

Had they known, they'd probably have said something. Still, Peter didn't want Mr Stark to get in trouble.

…He could always say he stole the suit, and hope that Mr Stark didn't get blamed.

A small voice in the back of his head wondered if maybe, it wasn't worth it, protecting Mr Stark from any repercussions. What had _he_ done to protect Peter from the Accords, and Ross?

He squashed the thought as soon as he had it.

Man, whoever had made this really disliked superheroes. You could either work directly under the government or not at all, consequently eliminating vigilantes and superheroes entirely.

"Why didn't you sign?" he asked Falcon at some point.

"Lots of reasons," he said, taking his eyes away from the ceiling. "For example: who decides which catastrophe is worth interfering with, and how can we be sure that they won't be biased in their decision? And that's just one thing."

"Did-" he cut himself off. He couldn't act like he knew what happened at the airport. Even if it was slowly and surely eating him up inside, and he'd love for literally anyone to tell him he had done the right thing. Which, with the way things were going, didn't look like it'd happen any time soon.

"Did you break the Accords? Why didn't you take the other option?"

"There was an immediate threat that went ignored. I just did what I felt was right."

Peter nodded, thinking back to the fight.

He'd been worried about impressing Mr Stark, but also so excited, downright giddy. Yet, he remembered Falcon; he'd been dead serious, maybe even scared. Most of all, focused on what they had to do. All of them. So much so that the four had sacrificed themselves just to allow the Captain and the Winter Soldier to escape. Probably to get to the threat Falcon was talking about.

And this is what they were getting for their trouble.

"I can see you're thinking about it," Hawkeye said pointedly, briefly glancing in his direction and away from Wanda for a second. "Don't even consider it. You don't belong here."

He was right.

He had to sign. Not just for him, but for May. He couldn't just disappear on her.

"And you do?"

"Oh, no. But we're not the same, kid."

"Is no one trying to get you a pardon? Get you out?" Surely someone was. They had a team.

Falcon actually looked amused. "I'd say Steve is actually in hotter water than us, legally. Not much he can do."

"Oh, but Sam, we still have Stark," Hawkeye said mockingly, but the sentiment was not directed at Falcon. "Waltzing in like he hasn't broken a thousand laws himself." Peter took a sharp breath. "What was it 'You read it, you broke it'? Yeah, I'm definitely expecting him to get us out. He can't even get his head out of his ass."

"Can I play devil's advocate?" Scott asked after a brief pause.

"No," Hawkeye said drily.

"Well I will. I'm no fan of the guy, especially after that show yesterday, but I'm sure… I think, he has good intentions."

"And you know what they say about _good intentions_ ," Hawkeye shot back. Sam's head raised slightly at the words. The other two continued, but Peter had stopped listening.

Mr Stark had been here. So, he knew about the prison. If there was a way to get in touch with him…

Would the 'you read it, you broke it' apply to Peter too? Surely not, though? He hadn't read it, hadn't even known that was what they were fighting about. Could he really be held responsible?

The ceiling was fast becoming more interesting than the agreements, but the thoughts he was having were definitely a drawback. He shook his head, trying to get his mind away from them.

The others' conversation had died down, but Falcon hadn't moved in a while. Sam was sitting on the cot, a thinking frown on his face. When he stood up, it was to restlessly pace the small space of his cell.

Scott had turned to look at Sam as much as he could, staring. When he was in a position to, Sam noticed and he raised an eyebrow in question.

"What?"

"What is it?" Scott asked.

"It's not any of your business," Sam said simply, without any accusation.

"Look, if _you're_ nervous, it's making me nervous."

Sam scoffed lightly. "I try, alright? But I can't always be the voice of reason. I have other troubles."

"Right now, we have the same troubles," Scott grimaced.

"Did you ever have to wonder how many Hydra agents have given you orders, that you've followed?" Sam said, without raising his voice, but the tension in the words was thick. "Thinking that you were doing the right thing? How no post is safe from corruption? How easy it is for them to put you away with no due process?"

Peter hadn't. But he was beginning to realise how it might feel, a little. Surely it wasn't equivalent, but he was wondering just the same. Wondering if anyone would come for him when he hadn't even been able to make a phone call.

Wondering if ignorance had you do things you would ultimately regret.

He could admit that to himself, at least. He regretted it. Not just the trip, but not asking more questions. Not pressing for more answers, and reasons. He'd thought it was as clear-cut as Iron Man had said. He'd just thought Mr Stark had all the answers, like he always seemed to on college campuses and tech magazines.

Maybe he didn't. He probably hadn't known about this place. About Wanda and what was happening to her.

About Peter.

Had he even learned about it? And if he had, did he tell May? Was she losing her mind right then, calling the police or the school or whoever would listen? He could die down there and no one would know. They could all die whenever Ross wanted.

Did they have families? Sam, Scott, Hawkeye, Wanda? Were they parents, or siblings? Was someone waiting for them back home, like May? Not knowing where they were, how they were doing?

Looking at the door like their family would walk in any minute?

He would sign. For May. He couldn't leave her alone, not ever. She'd done so much for him, both before, but also more recently. She was his rock, and he'd like to think that he was hers. After Ben… it was just the two of them.

His eyelids were heavy. There had probably passed more time than he'd thought. The Accords were a huge read, and if nothing else, could keep someone occupied. The next day, then. He'd get the attention of whoever was watching; say he'd sign.

If he could… No, no ifs. He'd come for them. Tell Mr Stark, work with him to bring them home.

…

The next day didn't dawn.

There was no sun down there, no measure of time other than the meals.

A repeated thumping sound was all that Peter could hear. No discussion, nothing. Lifting the cover from his head, he saw what the silence was about.

A guard was in the empty circular floor. Armed to the teeth, he was pacing the length of the glass doors back and forth, hitting his baton lightly against his thigh every few moments.

They couldn't even talk anymore. The one thing that broke the painful monotony of the place, and it had been taken away.

Sam was pacing. Hawkeye and Scott were looking at the ceiling.

Wanda was doing nothing, like always. Even her expression was static, blank and staring into nothing. Like the slightest move would shatter her. It probably would. They were far too afraid of her to not have someone with a hand on the shock controls at all times.

He had to get out. Now.

"Step away from the glass," ordered a voice, low and sudden, from somewhere in the cell.

Peter's heart started beating erratically. He did back away from the glass, avoiding the others' pointed, concerned looks.

The guard stopped his pacing, standing right outside the glass. He punched in a code in the control panel. The middle part of the bars disconnected from the others, opening along with the glass.

Peter hesitated, but the man made an impatient motion, and he stepped out. Without a word, the guard caught his upper arm and steered him towards the door on the other end. Peter could tell the grip was intended to be tight, but it fell short of actually having an effect on him. He actively had to let himself be dragged along, lest he break it by accident. His abilities could easily make that place hell, as evidenced by Wanda's situation.

It was maddening. He wanted to run, punch through the glass and get them out. Rip that collar off Wanda's neck and break it into a hundred pieces. The simple running shoes he had on were burning on his feet, and he, irrationally, almost felt them stick to the floor in sheer need to stay back, and fear of what was waiting.

But he went through the door, through a control room, where no one looked at them, and into the corridors. Did those people even know about him being Spider-Man? Or did they think he was just a random kid, enhanced, but not really of any consequence.

Not that Spider-Man had ever been of any consequence, at least until he got himself involved with the Avengers.

He was shoved into a bright room, and the door closed and locked behind him.

"Take a seat." Behind the office desk was Ross, appearing busy, but Peter could see most of the papers on there were already signed. "I wanted to speak to you about the… situation, as it is."

Peter sat on the grey chair on the other side of the desk. "Actually, I was about to tell you."

"That you'll sign?" Ross asked meaningfully. Peter got a bad feeling, but he nodded. "There's a problem in that you're a minor, of course, it does complicate things, but your guardians will take care of that. However, on to the matter at hand."

He stood up, unhurried, making his way around the desk and behind Peter. If he wanted to intimidate, he'd definitely managed it. He kept walking, pacing, as if Peter wasn't even there.

"Your blood analysis came back," Ross said, and dread washed through Peter. Of course, they'd taken a blood sample, they were not idiots. "The results were… very interesting indeed. Studying them would be a great asset, to us, and to the world as a whole."

Shit.

No.

"You can see why you might need to stay a bit longer."

"Not really." He swallowed. "I mean, you can study the samples you have?"

"Ah, but we need you for the tests," Ross said. "In any case, I have a feeling you wouldn't want to be uncooperative."

That was a hundred and fifty percent correct, but Ross could never know it.

The man stopped pacing, right behind him.

"Scarlet Witch was uncooperative."

Peter did not let himself panic. The shock he'd received back on that rooftop was bad enough, but what had happened to Wanda… the thought scared him more than he admitted.

"So, this is just because she was 'uncooperative'?"

Ross started pacing again. "Of course, she's enhanced. We, unfortunately, run a prison, and we have to ensure that it does its primary job. And we can't discount her history and where she comes from as well. We can never be sure what her motives are."

Because she was enhanced? Or because she was from Sokovia?

"Now, for you, there's no reason to go to such lengths. But if you prove to be… uncooperative, I really cannot guarantee anything."

Peter forced himself to breathe.

"One last thing," Ross said, sitting behind the desk again. "The suit."

But Peter had prepared for that question. "I stole it. Nobody cared much, they had other things to worry about."

Ross lifted his eyebrows, in surprise or wonder, Peter didn't know. "It will need to be returned at a later date," he said, but it didn't look like he stopped thinking about it.

"How much longer?" Peter asked, because that's all that was left to clear up. He was backed into a corner and had nothing to offer Ross, except his name and his signature; things he would get anyway.

"Five days," Ross said. "A week, maybe. After that, you sign, you get the pardon, you return to your guardians."

The 'until we need you' went unsaid.

…

The hours crawled by.

There was nothing to do. The plain, bright cell was getting increasingly more suffocating. The thought of the world outside, wide and endless, was nauseating. The thought of the others, and what would happen to them, scary.

The only thing he could do was read the Accords, over and over again. He'd counted the pages (294), counted the times the word 'weapon' was used (21), the times the word 'weapon' was implied but dressed up differently (73), every time they had a Thor-shaped hole in their proposed requirements or consequences of something (34), every word he didn't understand (107), and finally, the number of times children were protected from ramifications concerning the whole thing (1). Turned out, most of it depended on each country's own legislation. And Ross was one of the most powerful people in the US.

At some point, he'd got so sick of reading the same thing that he threw the papers clear on the other side of the cell.

He accidentally caught the eye of the guard, and hurriedly looked away. The man didn't look particularly vicious, or hateful, but he couldn't stop the anxious feeling that arose every time he happened to glance Peter's way.

Coming back, he'd seen how the cells were arranged like a viewing gallery, like some form of a spectacle. As if on display, there for the viewing pleasure of an audience. It had sickened him then, and it sickened him now, watching the guard, knowing what they looked like to someone in the room.

The others had all had their eyes at the door when he returned. He didn't know what they'd expected, but thought they'd been relieved to see nothing was obviously wrong with him.

When he'd had enough of sitting still, he debated whether or not to try to get it out of his system. However, after a couple of stretching exercises, thirty push-ups and twenty sit-ups he was starting to run out of patience, and so was the guard, giving him looks every time he passed.

Peter was expecting someone to come for him any minute, but no one did. They were probably still busy with the first blood samples.

He started thinking, but the worst-case scenarios were too many, and too scary. Instead, he tried to think of the best-case, the things he'd like to do once this whole thing was over.

He imagined going back to May's apartment, knocking on the door. She'd open, and her eyes would light up, she'd smile that relieved smile, and he could fall into her arms. He'd hug her and promise he'd never leave again.

He imagined Ned, and their Legos, and the way his eyes crinkled with pride every time they built something new. They'd open the box, empty the pieces on the floor, slowly work their way up to the last one. He could lean his head on Ned's shoulder and it would be okay.

He started making up scenarios, anything other than the reality. Iron Man blasting through the door. Black Widow knocking out the guard. Hulk and Thor tearing the place apart brick by brick. Captain America punching Ross in his smug face.

Spider-Man was conspicuously absent from these last ones. Even Falcon, Scarlet Witch and Hawkeye featured, along with the Big-Small guy that was probably Scott, descending on the building like angels of vengeance, and taking back their freedom by force. But not him.

Just days before, he'd felt invincible. Like he could do anything. The world was warm and wide and full of promise. He had a purpose again, a dream, for the first time since That Night. Something not heavy and anxious and 'I can do more', pressing, swallowing, _guilt_. Different.

The Avengers were different. They were heroes; hope, safety, a fire, burning through the evil of the world and saving however many people they could. Unconstrained by worries of personal gain, or an agenda; just doing the right thing because they had the power to. And amazingly, he could maybe be one of them. If he just impressed Mr Stark enough. If he showed that he could do it.

But in the end, the Avengers were still human. Painfully human. Desperately human. Just doing their best, like he tried to. And even _their_ best was not the gold standard.

Peter didn't know if that made him feel better, or worse. On the one hand, there was something comforting in the thought that there was no magic equation that made you have all the answers, do all the right things.

On the other hand, without knowing the stakes, he'd ended up in a submersible prison, probably in the middle of nowhere, with no options and only one way out that would make him a weapon for some governments, and subject to their whims.

They'd be able to have Peter do whatever they wanted.

It hadn't been easy. Putting on the suit. Oh, it had been the easiest decision of his life, but the moment he stood on a building for the first time, looking down at the traffic, the only thing that kept him going was the pain, the anguish. That Night, blurred into a moment and horribly clear as day all at once.

He had something to do. A purpose. A responsibility. He had power. Maybe he'd never asked for it, but it was his. He had to use it to help whoever he could, however he could.

In his experience, that hadn't always been the thing with institutions. Even the most essential thing, a hospital. May would come home from work some days, face tired and haggard, and lament about people who didn't make it to the doctor, being too poor, or uninsured, or whatever else way they used to vet them.

If it was not a given that you could get a simple appointment with the doctor, in a hospital, then how could people expect whole countries, that waged war for money, to have everyone's best interests at heart? And agree about it? History was rife with examples of why this was a bad idea, and yet.

And yet, someone, many people, had seen merit and hope in this. Maybe there was. Peter wasn't a political analyst, just a fourteen-year-old who wanted to help, and had the power to do it. He didn't know for sure what the Accords could accomplish long-term, except eliminate superheroes.

What he did know was that helping people was not a choice. Not the way some saw it. You couldn't just leave some, take some. You try your best, and hope for the best.

He wouldn't have that choice anymore.

…

His sleep was dreamless and restful, for once.

The day was just as empty as the last one. He wanted to ask for a notebook, or a videogame maybe. Something to keep the long, dragging hours from turning him crazy. He didn't dare.

Wanda was not moving. Hawkeye was just staring at the ceiling. Sam was pacing, muscles wound tight and controlled. Scott was hitting the stool lightly, rhythmically, like a drum.

Someone was coming. The darkness beyond the light of the cells didn't allow him to see who it was, but he could hear. A thump, as something heavy, like the body of an armoured guard, fell to the floor.

Sam turned, smiled. It was sincere, and _right_ , as if suddenly the world was making sense again.

Captain America himself emerged through the darkness.

Hawkeye and Scott jerked, turning to look like they didn't believe it. The Captain wasn't in his suit, rather, in plain black clothes that made him blend in with the darkness. The lack of uniform didn't make Peter's relief at seeing him any less, though.

The man punched a code into the control panel of Sam's cell, and the door opened. All the doors opened. Immediately, Hawkeye and Scott got out, one heading for the Captain and the other for Wanda.

Peter couldn't quite believe it. But the door was open, so he hesitantly got out too. This was it. The way out, that he'd been dreaming about.

Sam shook his head, smiling in relief, and something else. "For a moment, I thought…"

"I would never," the Captain said with certainty, half-embracing him. Sam's eyes shut tight as he hugged back.

Peter averted his eyes, feeling like he was intruding. He stood right in the shadows, not ready to approach them. What could he say?

"Captain," Scott nodded in acknowledgement. He was also standing to the side, not immediately getting close.

"Steve? A little help?" Hawkeye called.

Wanda hadn't moved. Even though the door was open. Even though the collar's light wasn't blinking anymore. Even though first Hawkeye, and then Scott and the other two, were there. Steve's expression turned ugly when he laid eyes on the collar, but he didn't make any sudden or violent moves.

"I'll take it off, alright?" he said. Wanda didn't move a muscle.

Slowly, ever so slowly, he kneeled down, taking the collar in his hands. It looked tiny and frail there; harmless. Maybe it was the doors, gaping open, or the heroes, giving Peter the relief and hope he'd only dared to dream of.

With a crunching sound, the device was destroyed.

Everyone backed away as Wanda didn't move. A couple of seconds later though, Peter was hit with the sensation that something would happen. Something big. He instinctively stepped back, sticking to the wall.

Then Wanda screamed, wild, loud and angry. Red energy exploded around her, slashing the blue fabric on her torso into pieces. Metal went flying, screeching and breaking as her power tore through the walls, the floor, and the ceiling.

But not them. He hadn't even felt it.

The others' relieved faces broke into smiles.

"Steve," she said, quiet. "Thanks."

"Time to go," he nodded, looking at everyone in turn. When it came to Peter, his expression didn't change.

"Captain," he whispered, and not just because he still wasn't sure how they'd react if they knew who he was.

"Are you coming?"

He was doing this. He was actually going to break out of that place, with Captain America of all people.

He stubbornly squashed the 'what if they find you afterwards anyway?' thoughts. It depended on just how many people knew about the connection of Spider-Man to Peter Parker's face, and how good he'd be at staying away from the spotlight. Yeah. He could do it. Probably.

"Yeah. Yeah I'm coming."

…

The sky is limitless, cloudy and raining. Around, an endless ocean, all angry waves and sea spray. The air smells like sea salt; cold, icy wind whipping through their hair and clothes.

It's so beautiful, he isn't sure if the drops on his face are tears or rain.

"Now what?" Hawkeye- Clint, asks, after looking his fill for a couple of seconds. Nobody is shooting at them, but that can change.

The gear they found, after many punches to the face, certainly made escape easier, but not from the middle of nowhere. Everyone except Peter and, ironically, Steve, is in full costume. Peter didn't want anyone who saw them to make the connection if they didn't already know it, and the Captain America suit had never been on the Raft in the first place.

"Now that," Steve smirks lightly.

From below, beyond the end of the platform, emerges a helicopter, dark against the grey sky. Even in less than ideal weather conditions, it doesn't appear to be struggling, steadily coming their way.

That's when they start to fire at them, from the other side of the platform and the huge doors. They finally got some semblance of defence, probably using whoever had woken up after being knocked out. The rain could have blocked their sight a little, but it's stopping, only leaving them soaked for their trouble.

Wanda turns around, blocking the first barrage of bullets with a shield made of energy. "Go!" she screams back at them.

"Let me help," Clint says, already having drawn three arrows. In a second, where there was open air is only smoke and fire, and they've been hidden from sight of the Raft's defences.

"What do we do?" Wanda asks, when the helicopter doesn't get any closer. It's doing an admirable job of evading fire, however.

"Helicopter's big, it's still easy to hit, but it can draw their fire," Steve says, steadily, like he already knows how things will turn out. "The smoke screen isn't gonna last for long, so we gotta make it quick. Wanda can you protect the copter?" At the negative response, he nods, acknowledging it. "Then we'll have to jump."

"The gap's too big," Sam says. "You'll have to hitch a ride," he turns to the three of them, Peter, Clint and Scott. They don't object.

"I'll be the last," Wanda says grimly. Everyone makes various expressions of dislike for that statement.

She hadn't abandoned her position, still blocking every shot that came their way. "I'm your only defence," she insists, looking back at them for a moment.

It's true. As much as Peter doesn't like it. And while he is enhanced too, he can't stop bullets.

Still, Wanda's lifeless eyes have been burned in his head. He's not sure if he'll ever forget it. He doesn't know if it is bravery, adrenaline, or personal loyalty that motivates her and makes her able to step up after… everything.

Maybe that is the difference between an Avenger and a small-time vigilante. Maybe not.

There _was_ a significant change after they got their suits back. Not so much for Peter, but for them. Sam isn't so tense, Clint is calmer, Scott (Ant-Man) definitely livelier, and Wanda looks like she is more _alive_.

His own suit burns, stashed in a backpack on his shoulders. Steve found it, stuffed it into the third thing he saw (what had he been checking for? They'd looked the same to Peter.), and held it up to him, like a question.

Of course he knew. He is Captain America.

Peter reached out, took it, but didn't open it. He hadn't dared to yet.

"Fine," Clint lets out a breath. "I'll get you out."

"You've practiced it?" Steve asks. They both nod.

"If Barton gets Maximoff out, I say you help him on the copter, and I get the small fry," Sam says. "Take Lang with you."

"Agreed," Steve nods. "Let's move."

Scott turns tiny, latching onto Steve's wet sweater collar. Then, along with Clint, Steve starts running to the edge.

"Come on, kid." Sam held out his hands, gesturing to his forearms. "You can hold on and I'll get you across, okay?"

"Yeah, just say the word," Peter says. It'd be pretty cool, to fly _with_ Sam instead of trying to knock him out of the sky.

The gunfire is drawing closer. Peter brushes his wet hair away from his eyes, getting closer to the ocean and the helicopter. The top of the facility is so big that it won't make much difference, but at least Falcon will have to carry him a shorter distance.

Sam opens the Falcon wings, turning on the propulsion. He rises into the air, but not too high, still able to be protected from any stray shot by Wanda. He flies parallel to the platform in a small circle, likely to check that everything is working. He didn't get a chance to use it in the cramped hallways inside the facility.

He comes straight in Peter's direction, and Peter latches on to his forearms. The earlier rain isn't making it easy to hold on, but he doesn't want to use his spider-related abilities. He has never touched someone's skin while trying to stick on them, and he has no idea what would happen. Better safe than sorry, he reasons.

Flying is totally different than using web lines to swing from buildings. It's steady, feels free and unconstrained, and Peter will definitely acknowledge that Sam is doing all the work.

In a few seconds, it's over, and Sam tucks in the wings, leaving both of them to tumble into the helicopter.

"Strong grip," he comments. "You don't look it."

"Wanda!" shouts Clint, drawing their attention, and probably hers too. He fires an arrow with a cable attached at the end. It looks to be heading for the back of her head.

Or rather, next to it. Without looking, she plucks the arrow straight out of the air. A moment later, the cable starts retracting. Wanda holds on, one hand at the metal and another protecting herself.

Peter and Sam give her a hand up once she reaches them. Then, Black Widow increases the helicopter's speed, heading for the horizon.

Finally, _finally_ , they are out. The Raft is behind them, becoming smaller as they fly away from it. Within minutes, it's merely a dot in the distance, quickly swallowed up by the waves.

Peter can breathe easily again.

…

They don't go back home. Not the same day. The others, they are fugitives, war criminals, or whatever buzzword they use to try and paint them in a bad light.

Courtesy of Mr Stark, Ross will be hard-pressed to find out Peter's name. Or anything else about him and May. Any digitally stored information on the Raft has been erased as well. No one will willingly admit to where the master code for the cells came from; though Steve says that he could've just punched every one of them open if he'd needed to.

Though Mr Stark helped them, they have to keep his involvement under the radar. He'd effectively tied his own hands, legally, by signing, and thus can under no circumstances be seen aiding and abetting them.

That is how Peter ends up saying his goodbyes in another helicopter, this time with just Sam, Steve and Black Widow. They're making a pit stop in New York before heading to an undisclosed location.

"Your stuff is already there," Steve assures, handing him another suitcase anyway.

Only, it looks familiar, silver and shiny and _heavy_.

"Yes, it's the suit. I think it's upgraded as well."

Peter is torn between spluttering about keeping the suit, asking what can possibly be upgraded, and looking panicked at Sam and Natasha.

"Steve," she says, smirking slightly, "I thought you told him."

"You told them?" Peter asks, horrified.

"No, we figured it out," Sam crosses his arms. "It wasn't that hard."

"My advice? Get out while you still can," Natasha says. "You're too young. I don't know what Tony was thinking."

Peter tries not to be offended.

"I might," Steve grimaces. "Some people just can't stand aside."

"Just because _you_ are routinely almost getting yourself killed, doesn't mean you're setting a good example," Sam grins.

"Sure," Natasha raises her eyebrows, disbelief written on her face. "'I do what he does, just slower'? Remember that?"

"The thing is," Steve cuts in, with a fond, fed up look at the two, "keeping a low profile, at least short-term, might be better. And don't forget, you're not _obligated_ to do anything."

"But I am," Peter says, trying to stifle a smile.

At least they understand that.

…

May cries. Peter almost can't control his strength enough to give her a proper hug.

"I was so scared," she whispers in his hair, squeezing the life out of him as much as she can.

"Me too. I'm sorry."

"No more business with Tony Stark," she says, voice watery. "I get that nobody knew this was going to happen, but you're just an intern. Getting caught up in all this… It's not right."

He doesn't say anything. May thinks he'd just been Peter Parker while the Avengers had a disagreement. Not about the Raft. The Accords. The imprisoned heroes. The endless days. The fear.

He tightens his arms around her, just a little, and lets himself cry.

…

"Something's wrong," Ned says, eyes narrowing in suspicion.

"No, there isn't."

Ned doesn't press, but he lets Peter be the one to put the last piece on the Lego ship.

"The Stark internship…" he starts, when they are rewatching The Force Awakens on May's couch, "it was right around when the Avengers were fighting. It almost got me in trouble."

"Did you get to meet any of them?" Ned turns to him, starry eyed. He deflates a second later. "Wait, what kind of trouble?"

"The 'disappearing forever and no one knowing what happened' kind of trouble."

His friend takes a steadying breath. "But you're here," he says, reassuring himself and Peter too. He seeks out his hand, giving it a squeeze, and it does make Peter feel better.

Ned doesn't let go, and Peter leans his head on his friend's shoulder, letting the bad memories fade to the back of his mind.

"Everything's alright now, right?" Ned asks. He doesn't try to dislodge him or change positions.

"Yeah," Peter smiles faintly, though Ned can't see it. "Yeah it is."

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you enjoyed it, bc I hated writing it. No no no, I'm lying, it was a joy, but I really freaked out writing some things that I actively avoid reading. While I stayed pretty close to Peter's pov, I tried to give other characters the time and place to shine. Hopefully it worked. (This was a pain to tag, so if you see something off, just tell me.)
> 
> Some notes: Ross could've been much more horrible, but the truth is, if something got out, the public could very easily turn against him, especially with a 14yo involved, so he's playing it safe. (And I just don't have the heart to write something more horrible.) And. Tony helped to that extent because of Peter, but I'd like to think it's not just him. Also, just to be clear. I think the Accords as they are are inexcusably ineffective and dishonest, with few to none redeeming points, and should be abolished. If that didn't show in the fic, then here you have it. Lastly. I have, in fact, written Peter and Ned as having crushes on each other. I wanna write more of that in another fic though.
> 
> There are some loose ends I'd like to tie up, but for now this is it. ...I never did have the heart to write unhappy endings, did I. Hope you liked it! Leave a comment if you like. Constructive criticism is always welcome.


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